


seven seconds

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 11:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: There is a moment, right after the bomb has been defused, when both of them are struck with a staggering epiphany.





	seven seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the look John gives Harold at the end of [this scene.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0g4bj_lGm34)

There is a moment, seven seconds frozen in time before a two out of five chance of them dying together in a brilliant light of explosives and charred flesh, when Harold knows.

It’s the way John looks at him then.  There is relief there, yes, but there is also… unabashed wonder.  And that is when Harold knows… he has to be careful.

Because the way John is looking at him then is… nothing short of breathtaking.  He’s looking at Harold as if he’s a miracle.  A knight straight out of fairy tales, if knights have a permanent limp dogging their footsteps instead of a white horse.

It’s the moment Harold knows that… he has John.  That he _owns_ John.  Completely, in a way that he never has, before.  It’s not the first time that Harold has protected him.  But it’s the first time he has outright decided to risk dying _with_ him, just to save him.

He knows, without a doubt, that it is _this_ moment that has earned him John’s unquestionable loyalty.

And perhaps… something much more than that, as John looks at him with something much, much more profound than mere friendship or brotherhood.  Something very close to worship, and utter, complete devotion.

And Harold shudders at the thought of it, because there’s a reason he’s a very private person.  He’s afraid that John will discover that he is not a good man, that he is as flawed and as sinful as any other human being, and Harold isn’t sure he deserves that kind of devotion from someone in need of redemption as John.

And he has to be careful, so very, very careful, that he doesn’t take advantage of this unwanted power he now has over John.  A power that he knows John has only willingly given him as a _gift_.

Because he now knows, without a doubt, that whatever he says, John will follow him.  He can order John to shoot a man straight between his eyes, and John will do so without an ounce of hesitation.  He can order John to jump off this building with him, and John will find a way to twist his body around him and wrap his arms around him to break the worst of the fall.

He can ask John to kiss him, and he knows, without a doubt, that John will drop to his knees the way he has always fantasised, like a sinner before an altar, praying to be saved.

And Harold is seized with a terrible amount of fear, because he knows himself; he knows all his weaknesses and his darkness and all the ways the people he loves end up being in danger or getting killed, and he is afraid, so afraid, that he will end up _ruining_ John.  And he knows his selfishness, knows that he can’t want John without wanting _everything_ from him, and he is terribly, terribly afraid that he will only end up taking and taking until he doesn’t even realise that he has stolen every chance at happiness John deserves to have.

There is a moment, at this rooftop, when John looks at him, that Harold sees the complete and utter devotion in John’s eyes, and knows without a doubt that John is ready to give up anything and everything just to follow Harold.

Even his own happiness.

And Harold can’t— _won’t_ —take advantage of that.

He takes a moment to step back, and sees the split second look of confusion in John’s face, the minuscule movement of his body as he strains toward Harold like a magnet, as if John can’t bear any more distance between them, as if every step back Harold is taking is ripping through his body more painfully than any blade or bullet, and oh — Harold has to be careful about that too.

Because he has to be there for John.  Not just in moments like this when John is ready to sacrifice himself—when John mistakenly thinks he’s _expendable_ —but in the small moments of doubt John still has, moments when John fails to take his overall well-being into account, because John fails to see his own _importance_ , his own _worth_.  And that’s why Harold has to be there to do these things for him, to make sure that John is always taken care of, even in the smallest of ways—food, clothing, shelter, and the occasional arsenal and protective gear he needs—because maybe, just maybe, someday, Harold will have finally destroyed all those lingering doubts in John’s mind about his right to be _cared for_ , and most of all, his right to _live._

And maybe someday, it will have been enough for Harold to have earned the privilege of being the one to make John finally happy.

And the blessing… of loving him.

 

* * *

 

Harold, John thinks in complete breathless wonder, doesn’t know how to do things in small doses.

He doesn’t just save John from jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge and killing himself in one lethal wave, the way slowly killing himself with hunger and alcohol over the course of several months has failed to achieve.  He gives John a job.  And not just a job.  A _purpose._

He doesn’t just pay John. He keeps John well-fed, encouraging John to eat under the guise of meeting at restaurants or having take-out together at the library; why _else_ would Harold tell John to enjoy the humble diner’s eggs benedict, under the guise of working to save another Number, or tell John to keep bringing breakfast danishes for Bear when he knows that John’s favourite pastry shop is on the way?

He doesn’t just provide John shelter that’s _leagues_ better than the dingy motels John had to make do throughout his previous missions with the CIA, sacrificing creature comforts for efficiency.  No, Harold doesn’t just provide him comfort, Harold provides him with _luxury_ , with his own honest-to-god _loft_ where he can keep all the arsenal he wants without fear of being questioned by authorities.  

He doesn’t just give John clothes.  He has designer items _tailor-made_ for him, sometimes even taking John’s measurements himself, sinking down on his knees despite the discomfort it brings to his injured leg, filling John with inappropriate images of how he can make it up to Harold, make it worth his while.

He doesn’t just save anyone.  He builds a Machine that can save _everyone._

And he doesn’t just save John from dying.  He’s there, ready to _die with him_.

He thinks of Jessica, about the way he once told her that in the end, everyone dies alone and that no one comes to save you, and thinks about how Harold has just disproven that by bravely taking on a two out of a five chance of them dying, because Harold stubbornly refuses to let John die _alone_.

They’re both breathing heavily now, staring at each other in a limbo of disbelief at what they have just survived — _together_.

There had been a moment, once, when John first learned about Grace, when he wondered how a stiff and immensely private person like Harold is when he’s in love.

He thinks of all of Harold’s grand gestures and unthinkable capabilities, and realises — this isn’t even all of it.  This is just the tip of the iceberg, and underneath all the layers of bespoke clothing and cool politeness and numerous aliases and impenetrable firewalls surrounding Harold… is a man capable of _so much love._

And it hits him, with a surge of possessiveness so intense it momentarily whites out his consciousness as if the bomb exploded in his chest anyway, that he wants to discover all of it.  He wants to break down all the barriers Harold has put between himself and this merciless, bloodthirsty world, and fold himself over this man who is love and benevolence personified and tell him that no one will ever hurt him anymore, not without going through  _John_ first.   He wants to find out all the ways Harold can smile, and all the reasons _for_ those smiles, and more than that — he wants all of that for _himself._

He steps forward just as Harold takes a step back with a look of complete terror in his face, and that — that punctures John more deeply than any knife, because he can take any kind of torture in the world—he already has, in fact—but he can’t _ever_ endure the pain of seeing Harold _afraid of him_.

He steels his gaze, his features hardening into determination.  He will stay by Harold’s side, no matter what.  He will tear down every organisation that will try to keep him from being there for Harold, _with_ Harold, if it comes to that.  

And maybe someday, he will have been able to prove himself worthy of that love.  

Because nothing else will make him happier.


End file.
